Vivid Living

Last week I witnessed a rite of passage I’m unlikely to forget.  My twins and I attended a Shabbat service at a neighborhood congregation we’re exploring. Turns out that the community was acknowledging a special member of its own that evening – a 13-year-old boy named Ben who was being Bar Mitvahed.

The thing is that Ben is special, particularly special.  He is mentally retarded, blind and wheelchair-bound.  He cannot read or speak or hold a pencil in his twisted hands. Now…I’ve been to lots of Bar and Bat Mitzvahs in my 44 years, but I’ve never seen anything quite so extraordinary and full of grace as this one.

Ben was surrounded by his parents and two older sisters, both of whom had been Bat Mitzvahed in the traditional way – meaning they studied Hebrew, worked closely with the Rabbi to understand and read from the Torah, made speeches, and danced in celebration.

Perhaps more religious folks would question the legitimacy of Ben’s Bar Mitzvah given all that he could not do.  And yet, this Rabbi spoke about Ben’s soul, pure and simple. In spite of all his challenges, Ben, he said, was just as worthy as any other Jewish child for he, too, has unique gifts.  Typical Bar and Bat Mitzvah students work hard, but Ben, the Rabbi continued, has to work hard just to stay alive. And then Ben’s father read a blessing the family had written for him, thanking Ben for all that he had taught them.

There wasn’t a dry eye on the lawn (yes, the service was outdoors). In between my own tears, I watched my 9-year-old twins, wholly transfixed on Ben and his family.  What a lesson in humanity.

I never met Ben or his family that night.  But I’ve been thinking about them all week.  You see, the start of school always triggers a bit of upset and anxiety for my kids: we’re working through sleepless nights and insecurities about friendships, not being able to run as fast as the other kids, not being as coordinated on the playing field, and other real and perceived dramas.

Ben’s story helps me to look past these struggles. Because it’s true: every child, every person has his or her gifts.

I’ll leave you with a message from Ben via Bob Marley.  The musician played it the night of Ben’s Bar Mitzvah and together we sang:

Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna be all right

Rise up this morning’; smiled with the risin’ sun.

Three little birds pitch by my doorstep

Singin’ sweet songs of melodies pure and true; saying,

This is my message to you-oo-oo.

Thank you, Ben.

This is a month of paradox. Our four children are winding down the summer and gearing up for school. Me, too, for as readers know, I’ve just begun a two-year MFA program in creative non-fiction writing at Goucher College. All week we’ve been purging old clothes, shoes, toys, books, papers and other mindless knick knacks, while making room for the requisite back-to-school sneakers, supplies and the like.

This “letting go” and “taking in” feels especially poignant to me right now since graduate school has me thinking a lot about balance.  Much as I would love to apply the intensity, discipline and solitude of my two-week Goucher residency to life at home, I can’t.  This focused time away to attend lectures, workshops, read, write and engage in community with other writers was a sacred and particular experience. To think that I can clone that platform anywhere else is plain foolish. I wear too many hats, as most of us do.

And yet, it is possible, I hope, to distill some of my experience by embracing balance. Routines will be set once school begins but weekends and vacation are more unstructured by definition, and therefore, thornier for working moms with fluid schedules. Time stops but moves along, too.

It’s a privilege to be a mom, responsibilities and all. It’s a privilege to be someone’s life partner and to help care for our home and family. It’s a privilege to be a daughter and friend and colleague. And it’s a privilege to be finding my voice as a writer.  Together, the parts add up to the whole.

“The best and safest thing is to keep a balance in your life, acknowledge the great powers around us and in us. If you can do that, and live that way, you are really a wise man.” 
 Euripides (And woman!!!)

I’m still at Goucher College, nearing the end of my residency, which begins the two-year MFA program in creative non-fiction.

No, this post isn’t about the surprisingly good dorm food or my own desire to head to the kitchen and whip up salmon almondine.

It’s about humility.

I’ve been feeling it since my arrival here partly because of the newness of the experience, and partly because of all the talent surrounding me. My fellow students include Pulitzer nominees, newspaper editors, Supreme Court correspondents, college English professors, and already published authors.

Admittedly, the company of my peers feels a bit daunting.  And yet, like the game of tennis, your skills only improve when playing better opponents. I don’t play tennis anymore, but I’ve tried to keep this example in mind when talking to my new contemporaries.  Serve. Volley. Deuce.

In a lecture this morning by Tom French, one of my Very Accomplished teachers and author of the just released Zoo Story: Life in the Garden of Captives, we learned that life at its truest moments occur in the kitchen – not at the dining room table where the party is taking place and the guests exhibit their best behavior. The comments were made in the context of reporting a story, drawing specifically upon techniques used by Nelle Harper Lee and her close friend, Truman Capote, while gathering research for Capote’s In Cold Blood. In order to capture the vivid details about Kansas, Lee ingratiated herself among the community, insisting people call her by her first name and asking, “Can I help you in the kitchen?” She wanted to observe all the background conversations, colors, tastes and textures to round out her understanding – those telling humble details – for the story.

It’s true in writing. It’s true in life. Humility is how you win the game.

So I’m at the Starbucks tucked inside Barnes and Noble the other day, killing an hour in-between appointments. It’s about Noon. “I recognize you,” says Jeannie Ritter, Colorado’s First Lady.  “And I recognize you,” I reply.  I remind the First Lady of my name, that her daughter and my stepson are friendly, and of the few times we’ve met.

“Tell me what you’re doing these days,” she asks me, genuinely interested in spite of the fact the efficient-looking executive assistant standing beside her clearly wants to keep her boss on schedule.  I understand, I’ve been there, too. But Jeannie is all talk today so I begin to tell her about the kids, my writing, and my new endeavor beginning an MFA program in creative nonfiction writing. “Good for you. Good for you,” she says, and means it.

We talk for a moment about her next adventure once Governor Ritter leaves office. “I’m thinking about it,” she says, warmly.

We say goodbye and I sit down to tweak a speech I’m writing which happens to also be about seizing adventures. Minutes pass, maybe twenty. I’m lost in thought, concentrating deeply, oblivious to the fact that the First Lady has just sauntered over to my table.

“Sit up straight!” she whispers just loud enough for others to hear.

“You’ll be a hunch-back old woman if you’re not careful,” she warns, those earnest blue eyes of hers fixing my gaze.  I can tell she cares.

I’m a bit embarrassed, of course, but the First Lady happens to be right.  I thank her for the reminder – and I am thankful since slouching is a bad habit.

“Bye Jeannie, thanks again,” I say as she dashes back to her assistant and to do what First Ladies do.

* * *

Three days have passed since my rendezvous with the First Lady. And still I find myself smiling over our little chat about adventures, the importance of parental modeling, and naturally, her admonishment. I’m stepping into my new world today at Goucher College (while still holding up the old world, too) and plan to take the First Lady’s advice to heart. She might have only meant it in the physical sense, but to me, her message is all about standing tall and proud, refusing to slump.

In the midst of writing a keynote speech for a Fortune 500 CEO today, I decided to reward myself.  My treat? A new pair of slippers. It was 3:30 pm and I’d been working on the speech since early morning. I was tired and needed a perk. Actually, I HAD TO HAVE THE SLIPPERS IMMEDIATELY. Call it the “I need it now” gene, which also showed itself the other evening after dinner as I nuzzled Steve. “Hi honey. I love you. Can you please get me some Espresso Chocolate Chip ice cream?”

I am a longtime slipper lover.  And I’ve got to credit my grandmother, Myrtie, for this fix. She’s now wheelchair-bound in the final stages of Alzheimer’s but in my mind’s eye I still picture her waltzing around her spacious English Tudor-style house in New Jersey, singing a tune and wearing any one of her soft padded slippers. She had a whole collection: light blue, carnation pink, butter yellow, and my personal favorite, gold lame. Her feet were two sizes smaller than mine yet I loved her and her slippers so much that I wore them anyways. It hardly mattered to me that my heels hung over the back edge.

I no longer have any more of my grandmother’s slippers so now I have to buy my own. I’m not interested in fancy beading or feathers; I want soft material that bathes my feet. And when they wear down so that the soles no longer spring, out they go, to good will or garbage heaven depending upon future usability.

Back to my slipper run to T.J. Maxx. If I didn’t need slippers so urgently, I might have passed. Nothing really suited my taste but I settled on an ivory pair of Isotoners that were actually a bit big. “These can work,” I rationalized.

Yet…when I returned home and picked up the mail, I had a fabulous surprise: the therapeutic alignment slippers I had ordered while watching an infomercial on television one sleepless night had arrived. I could barely contain my excitement as I tore the bag apart.  They’re perfect – creamy in color and texture with just the right bounce. By the way, I don’t have feet problems; I was drawn to these slippers because of how comfortable the commercial made them out to be. Okay, I’m highly gullible at midnight, but if you’d like to try them for yourself, visit Dream Products.

I may keep both pairs of slippers or I may return the Isotoners. I’m not sure yet. But I’m convinced that I was meant to have a new pair of slippers today. Which is more about finding comfort and allowing myself this small reward than the actual slippers.

I’m all for little, instantaneous indulgences.

So I’m finally reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

I’ve been meaning to read the book for a few years but have resisted largely because of its grim plot.  Typically, I have no interest in books built around violence and destruction.

And yet this book is different. For those of you who haven’t read it (and I hope you do), I won’t give away the apocalyptic story line.  For me, I’m moved on a few levels. The writing is sparse and powerful.  “There were times when he sat watching the boy sleep that he would begin to sob uncontrollably but it wasn’t about death. He wasn’t sure what it was about but he thought it was about beauty or about goodness.”

Beyond the pitch perfect writing, the story is so raw and primal that it has deeply unnerved me. I’m dreaming in vivid colors – black rage, red fear, purple anxiety. Last night I dreamt that I got arrested for stepping off the curb with the wrong foot. The previous night I had lost my way and was running, en route to my children, who were lost and waiting for me. My first husband was in the dream and also my stepson.  I can’t quite make it all out but I woke to my own cry of “No.” Steve jumped.

For someone who usually can’t remember any aspect of her dreams, I find all of this fascinating.

I suppose I really shouldn’t read dark subjects before bed. Yet what lingers for me is that light and hope persist in the darkest of times.  That is what moves me deepest.

Because I know, and I understand.

I had a mind-body experience last week.

While Keda from Denver’s Spa Universaire hung from parallel bars, deftly pressing her bare feet into my naked flesh, I couldn’t help but think about my voice.  In the midst of this killer Ashiatsu massage (killer as in deep release not pain), I was thinking about intention and the color yellow and the cleansing smell of orange, lemon and lavender.

You see, I had picked the word “Intention” from among the seven Chakra cards Keda presented (Chakras relate to our energy centers). It made perfect sense that this was the card and these were the oils I selected.

Because without intention, there could be no Vivid Living.  Writing with purpose and passion has helped me own my voice and give voice to others. Intention is what has carried me this first year while blogging, and increasingly, it’s at the center of everything I do. I try to begin the day thinking about intention – in terms of my family, my work, my friendships, and my desires.

You know what? It’s the best form of meditation I’ve discovered. That and a great body massage…

How do you bring intention into your life?

My mother-in-law, Brenda, and I were having breakfast in Fairfield, CT last week.  The twins spent the night at my sister-in-law’s apartment so Brenda – or Brendela as I fondly call her – and I had a rare opportunity to talk.

She’s a special lady, my mother-in-law.  Meeting her you’d never know she survived the loss of her son and husband within two years; she is as kind and strong as they come.

We began to talk about empathy.  The subject came up because I was sharing about a remarkable book I recently read called Jantsen’s Gift .  The book tells the real-life story of Pam Cope, a hairdresser from Missouri who lost her teenage son from an undetected heart ailment. Spurred by her grief, Pam has gone on to rescue hundreds of children from slavery, prostitution and other evils in Ghana, Cambodia and Vietnam. Any mother (or any person!) who has ever experienced loss will be moved by Pam’s courage. The story took my breath away.

Back to my mother-in-law, who, naturally, was quite impressed by Pam Cope and wanted to read the book. “You know, Brendela, told me while sipping her coffee, “I love when I love.”  She had a warm smile on her face, and her words pierced me.

“Yes,” I thought. “She’s absolutely right.”  I, too, love when I love.  It makes my whole heart full.  When I’m in this mindset, I look past the piles of clothes that need folding and pay attention to the way the grass looks so lush and how the leaves of the aspen trees swaying outside my bedroom window tickles my skin like a warm feather.

Quickly, I found myself expanding upon my mother-in-law’s kitchen table wisdom.

I love when I live and I live when I love.

Thanks, Brendela, for this inspiration. You’re a good egg.

Love is Full: Brenda and the twins

Ciao. Ciao.

I’ve been away, in Italy, as I mentioned in my last post.   My husband and I took this special trip – just the two of us – to celebrate his milestone birthday.

The thing I love most about Europe is the way the old and new come together so seamlessly. On one corner stands a monument two thousand years old, the remains of a parliament building. Steps away is a gelato shop and boutique selling handmade paper.   The streets are cobbled, uneven and dusty, and the buildings, layered with paint and ridged with cracks.  It’s hard to imagine such a confluence of beauty in the U.S., but in Europe, I’m struck by how antiquity is preserved and even made modern and stylish.

It’s true in our own lives, too:  the past infuses the present.  Embracing our history, I’m certain, makes for a more graceful future.

While in Agrigento, in Sicily, Steve and I spent some time visiting the marvelous ruins at the Valley of the Temples.  Empedocles, one of the city’s great philosophers  from 490 BC (a period of wealth), summed up his fellow citizens like this:  ”The people of Acrogis enjoy the pleasures and luxuries of this world as if they were to die the next day, but make their buildings as if they were to live forever.”

What a powerful philosophy: live vividly, with passion and exuberance; enjoy the riches of this world, large and small; trust that the foundations you build will endure, and that your spirit lives eternal.

It’s been awhile. I know.

My friend, Cindy, is spot-on when she says May should be called MAYHEM.  I had one of my busiest work months ever, and for those of us with children, this month is always a whirlwind. Seems like every diorama project, field trip, spring fundraiser, and picnic takes place. Not to mention all the birthdays – in our own family alone, May and June must have been optimal the time to be born.

The good thing is that all of this is cause for celebration, something that’s been on my mind lately.  Because I’ve doing a lot of it.

And this spurt of good times and party going has taught me something: that the more you invite celebrations into your life, the more you want them.  They’re contagious, I think, in a good way.

While interviewing an executive the other week for a speech, she reminded me about an old maxim: “Attitudes are contagious; don’t let ‘em catch yours.”  Naturally, she said this in a different context, yet I can’t help but see the relevance here.  So much does depend upon our attitudes.  And experience tells me that the more open we are to extolling the singular blessings in our lives, the more we are able to connect the dots.  Suddenly, we see that one happy moment bleeds into the next, that the grass is greener, the sky appears wider, and the watermelon is more succulent.

My children also teach me that the simplest of moments ought to be cause for celebration – a winning presentation, success navigating friendship dynamics, an excellent story.  Yes.  We don’t need a ready-made event to celebrate.  I’ve come to believe that we can turn any finite moment into a mosaic of happiness.

Speaking of feasting on good times…I may be writing you next from Italy.  Steve and I are off to celebrate his 50th birthday.

Arrivederci, for now…